


In Defense of Paris

by Persephone



Series: Sons of Troy [4]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Hate Sex, Injury, M/M, Rescue, Sensuality, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Achaeans go marauding through the night. Hector warns Paris of the danger, and instructs him to remain in his own tent that night. Paris disobeys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Defense of Paris

Nothing in the world could _possibly_ be more boring than a war council. Paris looked around, wondering whether any of the other soldiers were secretly thinking the same thing.

They were in the tent of King Rhesus, the Thracian king who had brought with him a force from his kingdom to fight for Troy. There were ten captains and a few lieutenants in the tent from both the Trojan and Thracian sides, and they were sitting in grim contemplation, engaged in strategic possibilities and discussing intelligence reports.

Hector sat low in his wooden chair at the head of group, brooding darkly. His chin rested on this thumb while his forefinger played with his upper lip, and his brow was knitted in concentration. Paris slowly looked him up and down, which was how he had been passing the time since this interminable meeting began. He smiled to himself knowing that Hector avoided his gaze.

Hector’s long legs were spread wide apart with his arm resting in his lap. Once in a while when he spoke his hand would turn over and grab his upper thigh, and Paris’s smile would widen. On one occasion Hector had looked up and seen Paris staring, and had scowled and looked away.

Paris didn’t know what _he_ was doing here. Hector had been gently insistent over their father’s objections that Paris come out to the encampment with him. Paris had had no interest whatsoever, and wished his father had not caved so easily. Well, not _so_ easily. It had been a two day effort on Hector’s part to get his way.

So now, here he sat, bored, scuffed, chafed and tired. He caught himself on a deep sigh and suppressed it.

But now, it seemed they had finally moved into the last stage of their strategizing. They were going to appoint a spy to see if the guard on the Achaean fleet on the beaches was still strong, or whether they were beginning to show signs of wear.

“Whomever can complete this mission and return with useful news,” Hector smiled warmly into the room, “to him I promise the famed horses of swift Achilles.”

There were murmurs of approval and after a moment, one soldier stepped forward.

“The horses will be mine,” he smiled back.

Paris’s interest midly peaked. He surveyed the man, and immediately saw that he was quite serious about wanting those horses. Perhaps too much so…

But the discussion had moved on, and they were back to detailing strategy. Before his mind could begin to collapse under the boredom, Paris dismissed his thoughts on war and went back to looking at Hector.

At least he would not have to travel in and out of the city to get to Hector tonight. Neither would he have to wait for Hector to go into the city before he could see him. They were both out here in the fields, with nothing at all to do to pass the time.

And tonight, Hector wasn’t angry at him, so maybe they could share a meal together. In Hector’s tent. Alone.

Paris caught his lower lip between his teeth and his eyelids slid down halfway. Well, being made to come into the fields might not turn out to be such a bad thing after all…

At long last the council was over and he was permitted to leave. He walked outside and stood waiting for Hector. Hector was, of course, the last one to come out of the King’s tent. Paris let the soldier in front of Hector pass, and then he stepped into his way.

“It pleases me that we are not on either sides of the wall tonight,” he murmured in a low voice. He smiled slowly and pulled Hector’s helmet from under his arm.

The night was dark and moonless, and the light of the torches were the only source of illumination around them. Paris looked up into his brother’s eyes and softly breathed, “Come with me to my tent, Hector.”

“You have done nothing wrong, Xandros,” Hector protested softly, but still stared deeply into Paris’s eyes. He stood stiffly, as if trying not to draw any attention to his massive body.

Paris suppressed his smile, biting down on his lower lip. “Come, anyway,” he tugged.

Hector took one step forward.

“Prince Hector!” One of the captains from the war council stood a few yards away, beckoning. “A word with you while I may.”

Paris’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the man. Surely Hector could have a few hours of rest to himself…

At the man’s voice, Hector shook his head as if waking from a daze. He took a step towards the man then stopped and looked back at Paris.

“It is not a safe night to be about. I’m going to issue a curfew. Go to your tent and stay there.” Then he reached over and took back his helmet from Paris. He held Paris’s gaze until Paris reluctantly nodded. Then he went after the general.

Paris stayed in his tent for three hours. Then he went in search of Hector. Their tents were not so far away, what different did it make which tent he stayed the night in?

In the near pitch dark he tried to stay close to torches as he made his way across the fields. The camp was deathly quiet and looked almost desolate in the darkness. This was simply not where he thought he would be spending the night when he awoke this morning. From now on, Hector would simply have to come into the city whenever—

Paris froze. He had heard a noise. He was very close to Hector’s tent now, but some how he knew it was not Hector.

Nearly frigid with fright, he whipped around and came face to face with murderous looking Achaean warriors.

He stumbled backwards and immediately tripped over a rock and fell.

“Look here!” came an exclaimed whisper. “Is this who it seems to be?”

“We can kill this one instead!” another whispered urgently. “He too is a Prince of the city, and will be easier to take. What glory awaits us to return with his defiled corpse!”

Paris tried to push himself unto his elbows but they refused to support him. He fell back into the dust, and tried to use his legs to propel himself backwards. But they were just as lifeless. The Achaeans bared their teeth through their helmets, and Paris saw one of them lick his lips. Their swords flashed in the night.

With his fear spearing him in place, his heart boomed out the only salvation it knew. “ _Hector!_ ” he screamed with all his might. His assailants froze to stone, and there was a moment of utter silence in the night.

Then, like a bull from heaven, Hector charged in. Paris himself exclaimed in shocked disbelief as with one hand Hector grabbed the wrist of the lead soldier and broke it, and with his shoulder rammed into the face of the second. The third one stumbled back apace, eyes enormous on realizing he now faced the mighty Trojan, and before he could react Hector sent a fist into this chest that sent him ploughing on his back across the rocky ground. The fourth man braced his spear at an angle to the ground and thought to run Hector through, but Hector somehow used his momentum to spin at the last second and came to a stop behind the man. His elbow was now on a level with the soldier’s head, and he smashed it backwards, and the man dropped where he stood.

Hector stood with his knees braced and his fists clenched in front of him, breathing harshly over the bodies of the fallen men.

Paris’s eyes strained out of his sockets, and his jaw hung open as he gaped at his brother. He was petrified with horror, struck with awe, and shaking to pieces in the grip of a punishing erection.

But suddenly three more Achaeans pounced out of the darkness straight at Paris. They had no swords, only spears, and the first one was not more than one foot away to his right.

Hector fell on Paris, gathered him in his arms and rolled like lightening in the opposite direction. In a flash he brought them to a halt and leapt into a crouch on one knee against Paris’s side. He was now facing their assailants, his body an impenetrable six foot four shield in front of Paris.

The first assailant foolishly came. Hector growled and stepped into the man’s space and slammed his forearm into his throat, and the man went straight down. That seemed to snap the other two out of their madness, and they dropped their spears and fled. Hector let them go.

Paris jerked and scrambled to his knees. He threw his arms around Hector’s thigh and buried his face against it.

“Oh gods, Hector!”

“ _Get up, Paris!_ ” Hector shouted furiously.

He gripped Paris’s upper arm, and at that moment arrows sang in the dark, and struck. Hector’s grunt was no more than a whisper, but he stumbled and Paris’s arm became a crutch as he dropped to one knee.

Paris cried out and braced Hector’s body against his chest, even as Hector’s weight punched the air out of him. An arrow shaft stuck out of Hector’s back, lodged inside his left shoulder.

Sounds of skirmishes reached Paris’s ears as it became clear that their encampment was under an attack of some kind.

Paris jumped to his feet and bent over Hector. He hooked his hands under his arms and hoisted him up enough to begin dragging him backwards through the dust.

“Did I _not_ tell you to stay in your tent this night?” Hector grated out. “You _disobeyed_ my order—”

“Hector, _please_ do not get angry. This is not the time!”

Paris’s mind whirled and he quickly decided to take Hector to his own tent instead, in case more Achaeans showed up to finish the job in Hector’s tent.

As he dragged Hector’s bulk soldiers tore madly about, trying to find the invaders and working to secure their encampment. A physician rushed by, and Paris yelled at the man. He stopped in mid-stride, and then galvanized towards Paris as he saw who was being carried. When he reached them he grabbed Hector’s ankles and together they carried him the rest of the way to Paris’s tent.

Inside, Paris pulled out all the luxurious blankets and pillows his father had seen packed with him, and quickly arranged them on the equally decadent rugs. He noticed the physician’s startled look at his surroundings, but the man gathered himself and pulled out his instruments.

The man got on his knees beside Hector and Paris did the same. Hector had slipped into a semi-unconscious state from being jarred so much, but the physician didn’t seem worried. Paris paled as he aided him in extracting the arrow and cleaning the wound, and turned away as he cauterized it to staunch the blood flow. Other arrows had grazed Hector in at least three different places, but the bleeding was easily stopped.

“The enemy must know little of Prince Hector to think mere arrows would stop him,” the man said grimly.

Paris looked at the physician. “He took the arrows in defending me,” he corrected, not caring what the man thought of his own abilities.

“Our Prince is like Apollo himself among men,” the man shook his head. “That he would defend you when he had assassins of his own to worry about. They knew which tent was his. As they did that of King Rhesus.”

He finished his work and stuffed his equipment back into his satchel. “The King, alas, was not so fortunate as your brother, as to be away from his tent. He is dead,” he said flatly. “Keep Prince Hector warm.”

Paris stared in silent shock as the physician left the tent. As Hector groaned slightly awake and tried to settle into the blankets, Paris’s mind reeled and caught, and one name came up.

“Dolan,” he whispered disbelievingly under his breath.

“Yes, he failed,” Hector mumbled. “May the gods welcome his—”

“No, no,” Paris frowned. “He _betrayed_ Troy.”

There was silence and Paris knew Hector expected him to either explain himself or prepare to pay for saying something like that about a patriot of Troy.

“Hector, in his eyes I saw no loyalty. Only a selfish desire for the glory of ownership of Achilles’ famed horses. How else can you explain the enemy coming into our camp and knowing the locations of your tent and the tent of the King?”

There was silence again, and only Hector’s deep, pained breathing filled the room.

“If you suspected Dolan’s disloyalty, why did you not say?” he asked, too quietly.

“I _would_ have! Only you—”

“Paris!” Hector suddenly roared.

Paris stopped talking. He should simply stop, because Hector’s condition would only worsen if he fell into a rage.

“In the morning,” Hector vowed drowsily.

“Of course, Hector.”

At last it seemed Hector had exhausted himself enough that he finally fell asleep.

Paris stared at Hector, taking in every pore of his brother's face. He looked at Hector’s long, black lashes lying on his cheeks, at his curved eyebrows, his russet beard, and the strong line of his nose. His skin was flushed a deep golden red, his mouth slightly open as he breathed gently in his sleep.

Hector seldom let Paris touch his body, so instead Paris always looked. But at the moment Hector had no say…

Vividly, Paris could see Hector destroying those Achaeans for him. And he now realized where Hector had gone to earlier that night, when he had not been in his tent.

Slowly, hot, burning desire flooded him. Yes, he _would_ keep Prince Hector warm.

He unbuckled his breastplate and did not care if another round of attack was launched against the camp. At this moment, there was only Hector in the world.

He shed himself of the rest of his armor until he was completely naked and on his knees beside Hector. Then he pulled the blanket aside and was treated with the sight of Hector’s huge, golden body gleaming by the light of the torch.

Paris straddled Hector, and placed both hands on his chest, and smoothed them down to his sides. Hector groaned softly in his sleep and tried to wake up. But he seemed like a man in too good a dream. His magnificent body moved sensuously in the light, and Paris watched his own hands, and felt himself rise and fall with Hector’s movements. Like a ship on a roiling sea.

He wanted to lower his head and sip against Hector’s warm golden flesh, but he wanted just as much to watch his hands on his brother’s body. He compromised and lifted Hector’s unharmed arm, pressing his lips to the inside of Hector’s wrist, while using his other hand to lave Hector’s chest.

Hector writhed under him. Paris kept his eyes on his brother’s body, but let sensation wash over him. He licked his lips and controlled his breathing. But his hips were under a goddess’s control.

Hector began wailing softly and a few moments later there could be no ignoring his need. It pressed so insistently against Paris that he was afraid it would push him forward off Hector unless he accommodated it.

So his hips slid forward a little, and he shifted himself until Hector’s erection was pressing against his entrance. He grabbed both sides of Hector’s torso for leverage, and then slowly pushed himself back.

Paris shuddered and moaned endlessly, until Hector’s hand came up against his lips, and he heard him whisper, “Shhhh…”

Until that moment he hadn’t realized Hector was fully awake. Now he looked down and wanted to ask forgiveness for riding, for touching without permission, but he could not form words.

His hips seemed to move on their own embassy to take him to bliss and he knew better than to resist. He rocked mindlessly, and his body twisted in pleasure, matching the waves Hector was causing under him.

And in the torchlight, Hector held his gaze. On his face was a look of fascination that Paris thought must be a perfect reflection of own. He had never been like this with Hector, had never rode him into pleasure, and watched.

“I am watching you,” Paris groaned. He had not wanted to say the words aloud and shatter the moment, but they aroused him, and this night he did not care. “You are letting me watch while I—”

But Hector gripped Paris’s hip and pressed him down, holding him immobile. His other hand splayed against the sensitive skin below Paris’s navel, and his fingers gently dug in. His back arched completely off the blankets and his head titled all the way back.

Paris watched him through half closed lids… and then it was too much, and he was spurting his seed all over Hector’s chest. He did not close his eyes.

Hector looked down at his chest. “Sweet mother Hera…” he moaned desperately. And when he began to climax, except for low gasps he could not restrain, he did so in almost total silence.

Eventually Paris pulled himself off Hector and wiped him down with a corner of the blanket. Then he moved to Hector’s head and lifted it, and sat down, and gently placed Hector’s head in his lap. Already Hector was falling asleep.

Carefully, he rested his hand on Hector's hot forehead, then rested his head on the pole behind him, and waited for the morning to come.

 _End_


End file.
